Plip Plop
by Satiah
Summary: He is alone. Still, he hears sounds like voices. Real voices. But when he lashes out, he finds no one there.


Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ... ... ...

_Plip...plop._

The faucet drips slowly…slowly…

_Plip...plop._

…There! Yes. Slowly and consistently.

A rebounding noise, refusing to push itself quietly into the background.  
_  
Plip...plop._

Eternally present, refusing to cease.

It doesn't matter what he does to try to hinder the noise. It still won't stop.

Turning the knobs doesn't work—it only exasperates him more to hear it go off again when he sits back down.

_Plip...plop._

It just won't go away! It won't cease its endless dripping!

And, of course, by now he's fixated on it; _now_ it's an impossible noise to ignore.

He can't drown it out. He can't fix it. He can't ignore it and go back to working in peace—

_Plip...plop._

—and now he's convinced that the leaky faucet has the same temperament as his old partner.

They're two of a kind.

_Plip...plop._

He cringes at the thought of either.

He's overwhelmingly annoyed by both.

He briefly wonders if they do this on purpose.

_Plip...plop._

Probably so.

It wasn't that the faucet was malicious, nor that Deidara was spiteful—

No, more like:

Sasori worked best in silence.

Deidara worked best while making a racket.

_Plip...plop._

Thinking aloud like this, Sasori imagines he can almost hear an echo, some shadow of a voice, lying behind the drips—

_Dan...na._

There! Yes, there.

Now he hears something a little different.

Something just as distracting.

Why did he do that to himself?

_Dan...na._

There it is again: this false sound.

A wisp of a hollow memory.

It is something he tries to re-ignore, tries to undo, tries to start from scratch and go back to the beginning. Tries to try again.

_Plip...plop. Plip._

The extra drip causes an eyebrow to twitch and a hand to grip a half-finished wooden arm a little too tightly.

Fortunately, his beloved creation does not crack. He looks hard to make sure.

_Plip...plop. Plip._

He concentrates again, trying to ignore the noises, trying to let it all go so he can carve his artwork in peace.

Unbidden, the voice sneaks back into his imagination.

Or maybe his imagination sneaks back into his head.

_Sa...so. ri._

Yes, that's more natural sounding. Short, punctuated syllables. Clearly more realistic.

At least it no longer resembles a whine.

_Sa...so. ri._

But, of course, curiosity gets one wondering.

Did hearing a phantom voice speak his name truly make for a better situation than listening to that drippy-drippy faucet?

_Plip...plop. Plip._

…Yes. Yes, absolutely. Because he can change a figment of his own imagination, a product of a distracted mind—

—but he can't change that which will not be repaired.

To that end, the voice resonates with a much softer sound. Each and every syllable is clear. Accented. Obvious.

_Sa...so. ri._

It is somewhat comforting, though, and easier to deal with than the metallic repetitions of before. That, and the hollowly resonating ring of the sink thereafter, just waiting for the next drop—the wait made for the worst part.

He leans back and closes his eyes, picturing in his mind the scowling face of his former partner. Dead now, that idiot.

Suicide by explosive, apparently.

He didn't even take down his designated opponent.

_Sa...so. ri._

He wonders briefly if his partner truly believed that he, Sasori, had perished at the hands of that stubborn pink-haired kunoichi from before. He chuckles at the absurdity of the thought.

Him? Perish? Never. The body destroyed that day was a proxy, thanks to the Leader's illusionary jutsu. Hadn't both Kisame and Itachi used that technique previous to his own implementation?

He wondered why no one bothered to double-check his own "corpse" to validate the death. Did no one stop to make certain it was truly _him_ who had been killed?

Konoha was feeling a bit foolish, these days. Either that or overconfident.

_Sa...so. ri._

He grated his teeth together. Yes, this noise was better than the dripping. But it was certainly obnoxious, incessantly ringing through his tired, aching mind.

Was there no peace to be had in this house?

_Sa...so. ri._

What? What did this disembodied sound want?

Was he supposed to feel guilt? Pity?

Anything at all?

_Sa...so. ri._

Well, he didn't.

Nothing.

_Sa...so. ri._

Should he?

He didn't know.

Why should he feel anything at all?

_Sa...so. ri._

Of course he felt nothing! Nothing!

_Sa...so. ri._

"You hear that? _Nothing_!"

_Sa...so. ri._

He screamed at the voice; the voice from where, he did not know.

Screamed and screamed and screamed.

_Sa...so. ri._

"Nothing! NOTHING!"

His body shook with rage.

_Sa...so. ri._

But the voice would not relent. It refused to go ignored for any longer. Refused cease—to leave him be.

_Sa...so. ri._

His rage blinded him—caused him to lash out in angry despair—

—at nothing.

He stood, bewildered.

There had been a voice! He swore there had been! Loud and clear!

But he couldn't hear it now.

_Plip. Plop…plip._

_Plop._

_Plip._


End file.
